Heartache

This will all end in heartache.

No more of the pain I can take.

The somewhat naive strolling into the sunset. A hurried escape.

Once an embrace, now separate ways.

You can count on me to keep watch, glue in my pocket and close guard of the clock.

This will all end one day.

In heartache.

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Lit Up

I rise and I fall,
so what.
My mind is a racetrack.
I want it all and I want it back,
so what.
I’ve been here before: flashbacks, retreat and starting over.
Not as a rule, just survival.
My mind takes off again.
And there is no plug, no light switch.
There is no way I want this as my routine again.
I gave up so much the last time I got out of the ward.
So what.

Mind peeling away the rinds and underneath I find that I am responsible for the output, and what goes in, and nothing more.

Counting Daylight

The need for you, us… lust
and to deny human touch.
Where were you all those years?
I gave up.
My head scanned for you, imminent souls colliding,
physical yearning, and nothing left to deny me.
Nothing special here,
I saved my guts to stretch
out on your bed,
just to hold the back of your head,
your neck clamped in my vice grip fingers.
Weigh me down and pinned inside your spare, fervent thighs,
so tightly wound, box me in,
make the sheets tremor and writhe.
Left to the mercy of night, or anytime the urge
takes you from prostrate,
to legs and waist,
coiling in the sheets where I can find your warm spots,
wasted not– but taken fully in stride,
and grappled flesh, impossible to hide.
Never lost on a man, who cannot adore you enough.
Counting the digital numbers, seconds, and texts;
all drawn out in hours, not breaths
… Until the next moment we touch.

Glamorous

This storybook romance, as a kid who knew little.
A godless world of men/children and seekers of caves to hide,
cavemen, with little room for women inside
purchased on credit, a debt owed for no repentance
Prostitutes or strippers,
no discerning between the two,
sorry lives that hold only resentment.
Cash sale, and how did it fail,
who takes the blame for this execution?
If you only could stay, pardon the world for screwing you this way.
The mirror image, now growing old, way too tired to play along
your mind wanting to forget today
You can’t remember when you came alive
Only to be pronounced dead after such a short time.

Pictures torn from your past, the recluse, the lost years
singe hair and skin, old age spots… the sun no longer your friend

Song #15

Here’s a rough scratch of a song with verse and chorus tentatively called What’s Left (of me):

Maybe you had it right all along, no freedom without sacrifice.
Life with blinders on- everything you were told; bought or sold.

See it for what it is, a complete void, used cartridges spent on the bathroom floor.
You had me by the head, heart bore into the apocalypse & you owe me this. Under closed eyelids

So here. Here’s what’s left of me.